From our waists to the tops of our polished hats we were every inch the fine English gentlemen, he in his brightly-patterned Arlington vest, me in my finest satin cravat, but from the waist down we were the most wanton primal creatures, our silk pinstriped trousers pooled at our ankles, the low hum of our savage moans evaporating into the crisp night air and my palms roaming restlessly over his smooth flat stomach while I drove more deeply into him with ardent thrusts.

The sumptuous and erotic melodies of Lakmé had brought us here tonight; Holmes had risen abruptly just before intermission, signaled with a slight pinch of my wrist that I should meet him in our secret spot, and precisely four minutes later I found his tall elegant figure waiting in the narrow brick crevice behind the opera house.

We never spoke during these interludes, and tonight it was I who approached him from behind, divested us the necessary clothing, and slid effortlessly into his flesh as we abandoned ourselves to breathless carnal lust.

The glorious swelling tragedy of Act III would be lost on me tonight, but the more desirable privilege by far was being able to lay claim to the calm and rapturous smile that I would gaze upon until the lights rose and, arm in arm, we sauntered in sated bliss from the theatre.